


HWD Drabbles

by greendragon_templar



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, a bunch of drabbles i completed tonight for the hwd, each is around a hundred words, no consistent theme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greendragon_templar/pseuds/greendragon_templar
Summary: A brief collection of five drabbles I did for one of the Hetalia Writers Discord's drabble nights! Based on a series of five prompts: decisions, patience, crowded, spill, and silence.





	HWD Drabbles

_Characters: England, France._

_Prompts: Decisions._

He never thought that pulling the trigger would feel like an easy way out. In the moment, however, and at the mercy of Francis’ frightened eyes – like a lamb before the butcher – all the hours he’s spent deliberating no longer have any meaning.

“It’s been so long,” Francis chokes out, clutching at his breast, dark with blood. “You couldn’t possibly doubt yourself now.”

“I’ll make my choices as I see fit.”

“So you say. So you’ve always said. But we both know this has gotten far too complicated in the interim. It just isn’t the same anymore.”

Arthur doesn’t grant him the honour of a proper response. He adjusts his grip on the pistol.

\--

_Characters: Australia._

_Prompts: Patience, Crowded._

It’s a momentous day, in the sense that few things ever seem to be when the world spins by so quickly. The type of day that actually writes itself on the calendar, that stops the clocks. _The Australia Act,_ set in stone. A piece of paper (or a block, rather), worth waving around. Worth stamping his name across.

“Two hundred bloody years,” Australia breathes out. “It took us _this_ fucking long.”

He’s speaking to himself; he can barely make out anyone in the crowd, no distinguishable face he ought to tip his hat to or throw a kind word. It’s just him – alone. Alone, in the most beautiful sense of the word, granted the opportunity to relish the victory.

He doesn’t give a damn if it matters to no one else but him.

\--

_Characters: Hungary, Prussia._

_Prompts: Spill._

“What the actual fuck,” is the first thing Prussia hears when he comes to in the morning, and he’s not remotely pressed to figure out who it is.

“Hungary—oh, fuck. What’d I do last night?”

“Got blind drunk and started yelling at some guy,” she says, almost with venom. “And then, for some puerile reason, decided you’d half-drown him in beer. I’m sure you can figure out what followed.”

“Such a good thing you were there—” Prussia says, distantly, clutching the throw hanging over the side of the couch to his eyes. “Fucking saved me. We were kicked out, though, weren’t we?”

Hungary scowls. “I’ll give you one guess.”

\--

_Characters: Australia, New Zealand._

_Prompts: Silence._

New Zealand’s presence yields to silence (her visits, these days, are as fleeting as dreams), and it is far worse than any impact England’s departures have ever made. It makes sense, of course; only one of them has ever held his attention. Without her, all he can do is try to match his experiences as much as he can to his human companions and pretend to understand them, pretend to _want_ them, when he doesn't have recourse to the indigenous nations sharing his soil.

She provides noise and excitement, besides, such as he struggles to salvage from the European overseers. Gaols and courts are no place for a child. 

If this is what having a sibling is like, no matter how much her departure hurts, he doesn't ever want to lose her.

\--

_Characters: Hungary, Belarus._

_Prompts: Crowded._

At 3am, things start falling to pieces. Hungary doesn’t know her own strength; the pen breaks in her grip.

Belarus finds her with her head in her hands.

“Can’t concentrate?’

“It’s too late for this shit. I want to go to bed.” She tries to rub the ink off her hands. “Fuck—”

“So do it. Or finish it. Don’t just sit around being indecisive.”

“I’m not—”

“For a start, your workspace looks like a warzone. Move.”

Hungary does, obligingly; she pushes her chair back, for the first time ashamed of all the mugs lying on the top of her desk, the crumpled papers, the broken lead and shreds of an eraser.

“It _is_ a bit crowded, isn’t it?”

“Take a break. I’ll take care of it,” Belarus answers. Hungary slinks off to the other room, defeated, and Belarus allows herself a smile.


End file.
